The Phantomness of the Opera
by TheMusicThatIWrite
Summary: This time, it's Christine who's the Opera Ghost...
1. Prologue

**Summary: Christine Daaé is a deformed gypsy girl living underneath the Opera Populaire. She haunts the opera house, sending the managers detailed notes on how _her_ opera house is to be run, and when her demands are not met, shocking disasters occur. Her only two friends are the Girys. When Erik Destler joins to company, Christine becomes immediately infatuated with him, and secretly teaches him to become an exceptional singer, who soon becomes a famous and renowned. But where fame leads, people follow. . . The ballet girls, the cast members and all the women of Paris fight to be his. But still, his Angel of Music is the only person he is interested in. Until Lily Desselle becomes the new leading soprano, that is. . . Love is a dangerous game, but with a beautiful singer and an obsessed Phantomness both in love with the same man, madness is certain to ensue. . .****  
**

**Prologue**

**Paris 1881**

**Lefevre's POV**

_Dear Monsieur Lefevre, 26th October 1871 _

_So far I have sent you two notes of the most amiable nature, detailing how _my_ opera house shall be run. I have requested so far that Box Five should be kept open for my viewing pleasure, and that I expect, on the first day of every month, a salary of 20,000 francs, which will be made payable through my competent counterpart of your world, Madame Antoinette Giry. I would prefer the money be in cash and placed in a white envelope; then you must hand it to Mme Giry who will, in turn, deliver it to my hand in an assured manner – the mechanics of such a manoeuvre do not concern you in the slightest. And please do something about that despicable scene-changer Christophe Moreau. As I'm not sure you're aware, I feel it my duty to inform you, the leering leech is taking advantage of the _corps de ballet_ girls, ogling them from the above platform and through an almost invisible hole in the wall, something I came across in my travels inside the opera house. I feel it is appalling that you let some monster take advantage of your employees for such a long time. If you do not obey my orders, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur._

_I remain, gentlemen, your obedient servant−_

"O.G.," Monsieur Firmin breathed in disbelief.

"And what, may I ask, does _that _stand for?" questioned Monsieur Andre.

"And, more importantly, _who_ is _that_?" fired Monsieur Firmin, his voice loud and impatient.

"Gentlemen, please; let us be calm here. I shall explain everything," I replied, trying to make my tone as calm as the words I had just spoken, when in actual fact, I felt anything but. I took the yellowed piece of paper from M. Firmin and placed it carefully on my desk. I inhaled and exhaled sharply, before beginning my story:

"When I came to work here, ten years ago, the manager before me, warned me, as I am now presently, warned me about the strange affair of the "Opera Ghost", a mysterious figure living deep beneath the opera house, in a lair of darkness. The Opera Ghost, he told me, was a musical genius, and had composed some of the greatest operas ever performed here at the Opera Populaire. Naturally, I remained incredulous, and laughed off the matter, until this strange note, the one I showed you, made its way to me.

"I read it cautiously, as imaginable, and discovered that this "Opera Ghost" had already sent me two notes. Now, gentlemen, you can do what you may with that information what you will: who knows what happened to those other notes? But at the time I did not care in the slightest. I thought it a prank brought to reality by someone who hated Christophe Moreau: after all, the writer named him a "leering leech". Therefore, I did not act upon the notes instructions. What was the need? After all, I was the manager; the higher power. I do not give in easily, gentlemen. I do not act upon unauthorized instructions.

"Now, gentlemen, exactly one day later, I was in the theatre watching rehearsals for _Il Muto_. Everything was going smashingly well, until Christophe Moreau shouted frantically from his post that there was 'a figure in black darting between the various posts', and, 'I tried to follow them, Monsieur Lefevre, really I did: but they vanished in to thin air!' I called back, 'Don't be absurd, Moreau, there cannot possibly be someone up there! Now get back to your job!' And that was that. Until of course. . ."

I sighed heavily, thinking back to the shocking ill-fated, disastrous incident that had occurred. And all because of my arrogant naivety. I should've believed. . . I should have been cautious. . .

"Well? What then?" Firmin's curiosity had been piqued and he leaned forward as he said, "What happened?"

His gruff voice snapped me out of my thoughts, and I blinked a few times, reminding myself of my present situation. "Oh sorry, gentlemen; how mindless of me to leave you in the dark. If you allow me, I shall carry on."

Neither of the men before me objected, so I carried on:

"Well, approximately a quarter of an hour after Moreau's 'apparent' run-in with this ghost-like apparition, he complained that he could hear a 'rustling noise', one reminiscent of someone 'cutting a rope'. I repeated my stern words from earlier and he seemed to quieten down. . . But then Henri Boudreaux, another scene-changer notified me of the noise too; another followed suit. Soon, all the men up in the rafters had said something other, about the noise or the so-called 'phantom'. It was then I decided to go and investigate.

"I had literally just gone from sitting down to a standing up position when I heard a rumbling sound, quite a loud one at that. I started anxiously, desperate to find the phenomenon that was causing that strange sound – so were everyone around. The orchestra had stop playing their various instruments, the ballet teacher had stopped shouting instructions for the _corps de ballet_ girls to 'balançoire' and 'plié', the cast members on stage stopped rehearsing to look, to stare, to glare at everything and everyone around them, worrying thoughts increasing by the second.

"It wasn't so much as everyone saw it shaking and advancing _before_ it fell; no, it was much more of everyone saw it _as_ it fell. We were all in the dark until some shrewd, observant ballerina – or perhaps she was just lucky to have looked in that direction at the right time – for she shouted: 'Look! The chandelier's falling!' Her clear words captured everyone's attention, and at the precise moment she had finished speaking, before we all saw, the chandelier's ropes finally broke away from its reins and progressed towards us rapidly. We all thought our ends were near; we had all _frozen_ to our spots in shock. Yes, _frozen_. There was nothing we could do to stop it.

"I honestly thought I was going to die that day. Luckily, by some peculiar twist of fate, the chandelier hurtled down on the _right_ side of the theatre; I, gentlemen, was fortunately on the_ left_. Coincidentally, so were most people. Yet the chandelier did not go down without taking some with it. Three _corps de ballet_ girls, the ballet mistress, some of the cast and stage-hands died either at the impact of the chandelier crashing down or in the aftermath: the opera house burned down. It took three fire departments to sort it out, and we would have been ruined if the generous Toussaint family had not kindly taken on to be our patrons. The opera house was rebuilt, and that was that. . . Except it wasn't, I suppose. . . Somehow, miraculously, the 'ghost' responsible for the catastrophic accident had survived, and started to send me more notes, detailing what must be done to stop something of that ilk ever happening again. This malevolent 'O.G.' demanded Box Five, twenty-thousand francs and for Christophe Moreau to be gone. Within a day of the new opera house opening, the note was sent, and this time, the instructions were followed. And it has been like that ever since; we live in fear of another accident. For the Opera Ghost had even sent me a note saying, '_There are worse things than a shattered chandelier_'."

"Well then, why don't you just get the_ gendarmes_ to track down 'O.G.' and put them in prison, where someone as malicious as that belongs?" Andre spat angrily.

"Believe me, I had tried – you act as if I have not; I assure you, I have done everything humanely possible to stop this atrocities from happening," I replied calmly. "Every time a note came, I arranged for the _gendarmes _to track down the murderer, had search parties arranged, had Madame Giry taken in for questioning –?"

"Did she enlighten you in any way to the reasons behind the 'Opera Ghost' and their actions?" interrupted Andre sharply.

"She only commented that she did what she had to do, and that was it."

"_That's all_?"

"Yes; I'm afraid so – we have done everything in our power to find the allusive Opera Ghost; so far, all the attempts have failed."

There was an impenetrable silence as us three gentlemen digested the information I provided them with, until I decided that it was time I should go and introduce M. Firmin and M. Andre to everyone else at the Opera Populaire. I spoke my thoughts to them and they both agreed.

"Yes," said Firmin, "we should get going."

"Hmmm, I suppose so," conceded Andre.

We all got up out of our chairs and started towards the door. I was first, and had just exited the room when I heard Firmin whisper to Andre, "What a ridiculous person this 'O.G.' is! We, Andre, shall be the managers to capture this 'ghost' and put end to his reign of terror!"

"I'm afraid that's impossible, gentlemen; _no one can capture the Opera Ghost_," I said. I carried on walking, before suddenly stopping, realizing that there is one more piece of information I must tell them about the Opera Ghost.

"Oh, gentlemen, I'm sorry, I forget to tell you: the Opera Ghost is not a 'he'. O.G. is in fact, after all, a 'she'."

**Please Review!**


	2. Chapter One: Christine

**So, Chapter One! Thank you for all your lovely reviews, favourites and follows! They really make me happy lol :-) Keep them coming!**

**Also, I didn't mention this in the Prologue, but the date, as it is mentioned in this chapter, was 18th February 1881.**

**So, here is Chapter One!**

**Chapter One:**

**CHRISTINE**

**Paris, March 13th 1881**

Christine's POV

"Damn it!" I shout, slamming my hands onto my organ. My action produces the most deafening sound; my hands fly immediately to cover my ears, drowning out the sharp noise. It perplexes me as to why an instrument as beautiful and hypnotic as the organ can create such a disgusting racket.

Once the notes had stopped sounding, I gather up my sheets and place them in the black leather folder I keep all my sheet music for the opera I'm working on: _Don Juan Triumphant_. As always, it's about love, hate, tragedy and seduction – the story of Don Juan and his maiden Aminta. I've been working on it for about two-and-a-half years now; I can tell mine's destined to be a great opera, therefore I'm on track for finishing, which I'm hoping to be around July – six months from now.

I sigh out loud. For three days now I've been composing constantly, consuming music instead of water. I can do that for days on end. Music is in my blood, my body, my heart, my soul. I feed off it and drink from its heavenly delights. I am music. Music is me.

And that is why there is an undefinable wrath and resentment that burns me like a raging, relentless fire that's hell-bent on devouring every minute detail in its path when I cannot compose. Music is the only thing I really care for in life, and when its divine imagination abdicates my presence in favour of another undeserving earthly being I can't contain myself. I don't even try. There's no point.

Without music, I am lost.

I am gone.

I rise from the organ bench furiously, aggressively kicking the bench back; it lurches across the floor, producing a resounding noise, before finally toppling over. I don't care. I'll tend to it later.

The _Don Juan Triumphant _folder joins it on the floor – so do some other aria scores I've been working on. My footsteps are cacophonous, their individual sounds ricocheting off the dark, foreboding stone walls. When I reach my golden-edged mirrors that I stole from one of the earlier productions at the Opera Populaire, I rip off my white half-mask, pick up a silver candelabra – again, stolen from the prop room, to which I have discovered a secret way to come and go as I please, so I may take what I want – blow out all the candles, lift it high above my head, and rapidly smash it into one of the mirrors.

The sound it makes is ear-piercing, but one that I am used to. I have destroyed many mirrors in my repulsive, monstrous twenty-two years on this unforgiving earth, and every time my non-existent heart shatters with it, a little piece chipping away every time. There was once a time where every insult, every hit, kick, and black eye meant something; every time I would ask the question _What is wrong with me? _One feeble look in a mirror provided me with all the disgusting answers.

Dangerous shards of glass lay at my feet, having been erratically forced out of their set places. What little candlelight there is, every flame a laughable attempt at brightening this melancholy, miserable place up, reflect of the treacherous debris. They, illuminated, are almost beautiful. Beautiful, but deadly.

One of the candelabras inexplicably fall to the floor, crashing on the ground, causing the lit candles to flicker and die, what's left of my hope – a meagre amount – with it. It is almost dark around me. It seems I am condemned to live in darkness. Fitting.

Though of course, in some cruel twist of fate, there is just one solitary candle still lit. The one closest to the one standing mirror left. The one which lets me still see my reflection.

I turn, ever so slightly, to go and blow it out. I'd rather never see light again then to have the one still aflame where my likeness is reproduced perfect. A grotesque, hideous, rotting mess.

I collapse to the floor. Some of the remains from the broken mirror have no trouble penetrating the thin dress I wear, and they slash and tear at the skin and the prominent scars, all formed years before. There will be new ones to add to my ghastly collection.

I burst into tears, making no attempt to stop them from freely flowing down my deformed, repugnant face. I don't really know what sets them off; perhaps the realization that I didn't need a candlestick to break the mirror, my face could execute the act flawlessly all by itself.

I don't know how long I'm there; I don't care. It could've hours, days, years. . . It wouldn't matter. Who would care what happened to the monstrous Christine Daaé?

I was born October 31st 1858, at night, to twenty-four-year-old Madeline Daaé. I've been told that Madeline – to me, my wicked, vile mother is nowhere near worthy of the loving title that should've been bestowed upon her; yet she was given it anyway – was vivacious and bright, and had been brought up as a traditional gypsy in a forest near Rouen. She was a loving a married housewife to my late father, Gustave Daaé, who was tragically killed by a neighbouring gypsy camp. An altercation, I believe, between someone about territory. Apparently, my father was winning, but then an unexpected person from behind shot him in the head. He never knew he was dying before he was dead.

It left my mother devastated. She turned to whisky and some white powder – which I now know as cocaine – she procured from some of the carpenters she met in the forest when she went off in drunk stumbles. Everyone told her to stop, to be responsible; but she was uncontrollable. Unstoppable.

And, of course, everything has a response. A consequence. Every action requires an equal and opposite reaction. My mother knew this. Yet she chose to abuse the guidelines and do things that no pregnant woman should ever do. Things that will harm their unborn children. Nevertheless, Madeline Daaé did them anyway. She did not care about me. I doubt she even cared about herself.

The night I was born was the night of a pagan festival. Where the unsettled ghosts could returned to earth once more to end their unfinished business; all stalking the world simultaneously, searching for the one significant person that had wronged them. And all revenge was exacted, once and forever.

The other members of our gypsy colony all referred to me as the 'Devil's Daughter', the Devil's vengeance for some great wrongdoing that we were all unaware of. Or maybe I was – and still am – that terrible deed and retribution all in one painful existence.

Madeline's labour was five hours long, from precisely seven o'clock to midnight. Those times was yet another reason why I was ungodly, a child of Lucifer; the gypsies couldn't mentally comprehend that a child could have such exact times of birth. It was not labelled as a coincidence. No, it was a sign.

My deformity was the biggest though. All those little things – including my father dying in the middle of my mother's pregnancy – factored in the conclusion that I was a cast-off of Satan's. But maybe, in some beautiful, non-judgemental, alternate universe, those unfortunate happenings could've been overlooked. However, my face couldn't. It never could.

When my mother first saw me, she fainted from my ugliness. The woman assisting my birth is the one that wrapped me up in white blankets and soothed me to sleep while my mother was out black. But when she woke, she cried, "Where is my baby?! Where?" And the woman holding me handed me to her. She took one look at me, and screamed vociferously.

"That is not my child!" Madeline Daaé shrieked, enraged. "That is some scum of the Devil's! The Devil's daughter! Where is my child?!"

"This is your child," the woman said, picking me up and cradling me. A job my mother should have done. She tried to hand me back to her, but she refused. "What is her name?" she asked instead.

"That macabre filth you call my child! _It _does not deserve a name!"

"_She _is still a child; a beautiful one at that. And her name is Christine, after my mother."

"Fine then," sneered Madeline viciously. "Let_ Christine _be _your_ daughter, _your _responsibility. _I_ want _nothing_ to do with_ it_."

"_Her_, Madeline; _her_," corrected the woman sharply, before taking back to the gathering, leaving my mother, weak and helpless, yet deserving all the same.

There was one person in the entire gypsy group that accepted me. Her. Mother. Not my biological mother; but the woman who cared for me and nurtured me like one of her own. Other children wouldn't play with me; my own acrimonious mother didn't care to see me; every time I left our tent I had to put a sack with cut-out eyeholes so everyone didn't have to glance upon my loathsome monstrosity.

My face is pure horror. The stuff of nightmares. Devils. All that is bad in this world is reproduced in my face. Twisted skin, shrivelled skin, no eyebrow to speak of, red and blotchy, a concave half a nose, stretching across the right side of my face hairline to the top of my upper lip. Deformed. Distorted. Mutilated. Misshapen.

It had defined my life.

And will continue to do so.

I received the black mask for my seventh birthday. It went all over my face. Mother – not my real one – said I only had to use it if I wanted. And I did want to use it. I used it all the time. It helped hide me from me. The pristine version of myself I imagined, and the malformed terror which was the reality. It helped me believe that I was just as beautiful as the other children; it's just that I was a bit different. Special, even.

And I the furthest from the truth I could have been. But at my young age, I did not realize this; I just passed the others' repulsion from me as jealousy. They weren't me; I mistook their relief for envy.

My childhood, which of course carried a few scrapes, was happy – I now put that down to seldom leaving my dwellings, and not being able to understand insults. However, sometime between my ninth and tenth birthdays I was abducted from the gypsy camp by three men, all dressed in black. They had masks on which covered their entire faces, like mine. It was for that reason I was not afraid of them. So when they asked me to go with them, I agreed. Willingly. Only later did I realize what I had done.

I laugh now, thinking about what those men must have thought of me when I told them I would go with them. They must have thought me. Naïve. Gullible. And I was. I was only a child.

This world is so cruel.

I was sold to a travelling circus. The manager laughed when he first saw me, after my mask had been ripped off, this time by utter force. I'll never forget the words I heard the manager say: "Oh, she's perfect, the vile devil. We'll put her in a tent called 'The Devil's Daughter', and we can make people pay ridiculous amounts of money just to see her face. We can because the public will pay. Ah, you've really got it this time boys; really got it."

The next day I was shoved into a small, claustrophobic cage.

I remember feeling cold and bare and alone; that was what I was. And I remained that way, being sneered and jeered at for two years. Until she rescued me. . .

"Christine? Christine? Where are you?"

Ah, the woman herself.

"Christine?" she calls out.

"Christine?" echoes her daughter.

"What?" I snap. I am in no mood to be disturbed. "What do you want?"

"Ah, Christine; there you are."

"Yes, I am here, Madame Giry, Meg. What do you want?" I repeat impatiently. I just want them to go away and leave me to my thoughts.

"Christine, there you are!" she climbs out of the boat she and Meg used to get across the lake separating my lair from the pathway leading up to the opera house and rushes over to me, Meg in tow. "Oh Christine!" she gasps. "What have you done to yourself?!"

So she noticed.

"What does it look like? I smashed a mirror, then fell down into the broken pieces," I reply bluntly, emotionlessly. No need to sugar-coat it.

"Christine! You promised you would stop doing this!" Meg exclaims.

My eyes wander from the shards of glass to Meg's form. Petite and thin, but fully developed as well. She still wears her tutu from rehearsals, and her golden blond hair is done up into a tight bun. She looks stunning. As always. An angelic ballerina.

"No Meg; you lectured me about the matter and then left before I answered you!" I correct.

"It was conspicuously rhetorical!" she responds indignantly, her incandescent blue eyes on fire.

"No, it wasn't! I tried to interrupt you to give my side of the story, but you wouldn't listen to me! Anyway, isn't smashing a mirror better than killing someone. Because I'm capable of both!"

"Neither way is better! Either way, you hurt someone!"

"Well, better it be me than them!"

"Silence, girls!" commands Madame Giry. I and Meg give each other one final disagreeing stare before preceding to look at Meg's mother.

"You girls will do no better if you continue to argue! Christine, can you get up?" I nod and do what she asks. "Right, come into the light." She looks around the dark place, and realizes there's no light, that the candles went out when I broke the mirror, so commands Meg to relight them. Meg then immediately produces a box of matches and flits around the place, like a butterfly, and soon the place has some light, enough for Mme Giry to do her work, yet still a poor excuse for light.

"Sit down Christine, and let me have a look at you." I do what she asks and offer up my arms and legs. She examines them, a pale and concerned look sweeping over her face. "Oh Christine, all your limbs are bleeding. This is bad. Really bad. However, it isn't anything I can't fix. How did I know to bring my bandages?" she says, the last sentence more to herself than me.

"Meg come here," she motions for her daughter to come, and then orders her to get her bandage kit from the boat. Meg complies, and minutes later she reappears, clutching a small bag.

"Here you are mother," she says. Mme Giry takes it off her, grabs some bandages from inside it and begins to wrap them around my wounds.

There is silence for a few moments. Until –

"Christine, why did you break your mirror?" Meg questions innocently.

"Why indeed," I reply. I search my mind for the right answer, the one that will give the most information and illicit the least amount of questions. "Because I couldn't compose."

"Has your composing spell finished for now then?" Meg retorts, a hint of a wry smile upon her face.

"How dare you mock me!" I exclaim loudly. "Why you little –" I try to stand up, but two firm hands clamp on my legs, making it impossible for me to execute the action I wish to do so.

"Christine, don't; you'll only make yourself worse," she tells me, before turning to her daughter and imploring in harsh tone: "And Meg, why did you provoke Christine like that? There was no need. Apologise now."

"Sorry Christine," Meg mutters meekly.

I force a bright smile just to unnerve her. "Apology accepted, Marguerite."

"Don't call me that!" Meg says, her brows furrowing.

"Christine; don't," Mme Giry says, and after that there is no more.

The deathly silence lasts for thirty minutes, but feels a lot longer. I start to plan new ways in which I can annoy the new managers, Andre and Firmin, who've only been at the Opera Populaire since February 18th, and I've already succeeded in extorting 20,000 francs out of them. But that, I realize suddenly, was part of the final payment that M. Lefevre had paid me in advance, on the first day of February, for that month and March. It will be interesting when the first of April comes, and the new opera is performed next season. . .

"All done then," Madame Giry breaks my thought pattern by telling me that she has fixed my wounds. I look down at my limbs to discover four thick bandages entwined around each of them.

"Thank you," I whisper, knowing that being gentle and caring will ensure that they will leave me quicker than if I was petulant and rash.

"Just promise me Christine, that this will be the last time you deliberately harm yourself," Mme Giry pleads. I look her in the eye. Somehow, we both know that it is a promise I cannot keep.

She helps me to stand.

"You're sure you'll be alright down here?" Meg asks. "I mean, it is pretty dangerous down here –"

"Yes Meg; I'm sure I'll be just fine," I interject, having no patience for conversations concerning my safety.

"Well alright then, Christine. Goodbye then," Meg says, obviously deciding not to argue back, but still having a reservation of uncertainty in her voice. She leans forward to hug me goodbye. I return her embrace with what little energy I can manage.

"We'll visit soon," promises Mme Giry before gesticulating towards Meg to come with her. "Goodbye, Christine."

"Goodbye, Madame Giry; Meg," I respond.

And with that, they are gone.

When I'm sure they have left my lair and are too distanced to see or hear me, I start to wander back over my organ. Even though my muse has left me, and continues to be gone, that doesn't mean I cannot play.

I start to journey over to my beloved instrument, when I accidently turn and catch my reflection in the mirror, and realize that it was off the whole time during Mme Giry and Meg's visit. What strength must they both possess to look upon a decomposing carcass!

I study my image for a matter of seconds, however that is more than enough time to set me off. The crooked nose, the twisted flesh around the eyeball, the part of my forehead where you can see my skeleton. . .

I collapse once again.

I am destined to live in hell.


	3. Chapter Two: Erik

**Hi! Sorry that this is one day late, but life and other stuff got in the way lol :-) I hope you all like this chapter. I enjoyed writing it, a bit from Erik's perspective! So read on! **

**Chapter Two:**

**ERIK**

**Paris, March 13th, 1881**

Erik's POV

_A flash of light. Bright, burning light that would turn you blind in an instance. The sort of light where, even though it's illuminating, it's so overwhelming that you'd be better off in darkness. But still, against my wishes, the light stays. Remorselessly._

_That damnable light reveals no surroundings, just people, and not even four fully formed people, just Juliette Destler, my mother. Her optimistic, vibrant blue eyes. Her flowing blond hair. Her petite frame._

_My father is also there: Victor Destler. Intelligent, thoughtful green eyes – the ones I've inherited. His black-framed glasses. His towering height. _

_They stand huddled together. My mother's hand is clasped tight in my father's, shaking uncontrollably. Her eyes blinking arbitrarily, a cross from disbelief and fear. My father stares down to the ground for a few minutes; he is frightened. This is the first time I have ever seen my father frightened; he told me never to be scared, never to be afraid. He said those emotions were reserved only for the weak._

_He told me that I must never be weak. That I always should be strong, even in moments of doubt._

_Like this one._

_Although he is showing signs of those forbidden feelings. Though I am not simpleton. He has every right._

_I watch, my breathing rapid and raspy, as my father's eyes lift slowly of the ground. They close fully until his head is level. He then stares straightforward into the eyes of –_

_Of – _

_Him._

_The intruder. _

_The man in black._

_The man in black with a gun._

_He wears a full-face mask, which makes him look bloodcurdling. Petrifying. I feel as though I might be sick. But I can't be sick; can't make any noise. For he'll see me. And he'll come for me._

_He stands tall, approximately four inches higher than my father. He his dress in black, with his aforementioned mask. I can't make out any identifying features. This man could be anyone. He could be a thief, a murderer, or even the Devil Incarnate. Who knows? I certainly don't._

_But the man's person does not matter. He is here with a gun. A device which could kill me and my family._

_And I can't live without them. . . _

_We are in a little village near Rouen named Le Petit-Quevilly, where I have spent my entire life. I was born sometime in July – the twelfth, I think; a date near that perhaps? – in the small house on the end of the market street, the year being 1859. I was – am – Juliette and Victor Destler's only child. I have often heard loud convocations between my mother and father about another child; and I grew scared that someone may replace me as a son to my parents. That they would willingly trade me for another person. I had one confronted them about it, when I was around six years old:_

"_But Juliette! We cannot have another child!"_

"_Victor, oh of course we can! Erik is lonely; there aren't many children around his age in the village, and I am positive that Erik would revel in the delights of another sibling, as would we, Victor –"_

"_Juliette! I said no! We shall not –"_

"_Mama? Papa?" I said, worry present in my voice, tears tickling my eyes. "You want another child? Instead of me? Are you going to send me away to some horrid place?"_

"_Oh, darling Erik, of course not! No, mon petit ange, no-one in the world could possibly make us exchange you for them!"_

"_But Mama, what were you and Papa –"_

"_Hush, ange," my mother had quickly interrupted. She wiped the tears off her face with her hand. "Now, how about a bedtime story?"_

_I still remember that day. It is a significant day in my sad excuse for a life. _

_After then, I continued to grow up for another six years, living my blissful and ignorant existence. My father himself taught me how to hunt and weld; he was the village blacksmith. I had my life paved out in front of me. I would grow up, take over my father's business when he retired or passed away, marry, and have beautiful children of my own. A family-orientated life. That's what I wanted. I wanted to live exactly as my parents had: happy and loving. I know now they had their own problems; however, I also know that they didn't want to taint my childish views on this "wonderful world". _

_I laugh at that now. What a life, the one I fail to remember, must that have been to state such a comment!_

_If I remember correctly, it wasn't long after my thirteenth birthday that the man in black first came. It was on a dark night, beneath a moonless sky, where no-one could see a thing if they stepped outside. It was pointless even trying. _

_We were all in Mama and Papa's bedroom; I cannot remember what we were all doing. All my memory provides in that short period of time before I saw him, was the ear-piercingly loud sound of the door flying off its hinges and smashing into the hallway, the heavy, slow yet perfectly equal stomps of someone, my mother and father exchanging apprehensive, worried, shocked looks and them silently ushering me into Mama's wardrobe, before he burst through the door._

_I can still see him now. For I am there inside at this precise moment. I can barely fit in, but all my instincts are forcing me to stay put, therefore I do._

_I don't know if the man in black sees me; if he does, he does not make it at all apparent. No, my vision is showing me my alarmed, horrified parents and the blank man, who is now pointing a gun at both of them._

_I'm trembling. My lip is quivering. My teeth are chattering. And even though the scene before me is truly heart-wrenching and despicable, I am compelled to gaze upon the monster which holds the instrument that determines the fate of my parents' lives. . . _

"_Please, save us! We shall do anything you ask of us! Only if you let us live. . ." I heard my mother yelp like a lost child. Her tone of voice is one I've never heard her use before; she sounds so afraid._

"_Please, you may have my fortune, what money I have, only if you'll leave us," my father is exhibiting the same quality of voice as my mother. Fearful. Restless._

"_No," the man replies in a deep monotone, a voice which I swear I shall never forget as long as I live. "No," he repeats. "No, your money is not enough. Not in a million years will your money _ever _be enough. Therefore you shall pay. Both of you. With your lives. Leave your child without his parents. _Like you did to me_."_

_Those are the final words before the gunshots ring out, crystal clear, in the midst of my parents' cries. _

_One. My mother shrieks._

_Two. My father yells._

_Three – _

"Erik!"

Her voice is loud in the darkness I am in.

"Erik!"

Her voice is one I know so well, yet choose to ignore.

Time after time.

Cry after cry.

"ERIK!"

However, this time, it is this particular cry that wakens me from oblivion.

My eyelids flutter open, and I have to blink a few times to reassure myself that this time, the situation is not the reality I'm currently facing.

"Erik, are you okay?" Mme Giry questions me.

No. Truthfully, I am not okay.

The dreams keep getting worse, night after night. I suffer from dire insomnia; but there is nothing I can do about it. Every drug Madame Giry has sought out for me; every solution has been tried, yet everything fails. Like my life.

I was inconsolable after I stepped out of the wardrobe. I screamed then fainted after discovering my parents' dead bodies. A massive part of me had died too.

Some neighbour had heard the gunshots and had called the authorities, what crappy little _gendarmes _they are. I had run away before they arrived. They would have wanted to question me and/or possibly detain me for their murders. For no-one would hear me out, believe I was innocent. And I had nothing left there. I was better gone.

I did not attend my parents' funerals, but I did go to their grave the night afterwards. I cried my heart and soul out and fell asleep next to it, wishing they were somehow here again. With me. Like they should've been. A family. Complete.

I was out dead in the cold when she discovered me. I did not know at first, until afterwards, when she had brought me back to the opera house and nursed me back to health. I have stayed there with her ever since, not doing any work, just living. Alone. In darkness. Where no-one knew of my presence.

In the morning, some of Juliette and Victor Destler's mourners went back to their graves, positioned next to each other, praying for their souls to be in heaven for eternity. They were all surprised and confused when they saw the red rose, the blood colour in complete contrast with the bright white of the snow surrounding them. Who put it there, they all wondered? The ghost of the Destlers' lost child, is the answer. But they never reached that conclusion.

"I'm fine, thank you."

"You were screaming, Erik. I am positive that you are not as 'fine' as you say. Are you having the dreams again?"

"I always have the dreams, Madame Giry," I respond flatly, lamenting my losses. Why is it that some people have it all but others, like me, have lost both their parents by the age of twenty-one and is living in an opera house, living a life which is only full of gaping holes and melancholy? "I have since I was thirteen; I do not sleep. I have developed techniques to survive without it."

"No human can live without sleep, Erik," Mme Giry informs me. She then looks around sharply, as if surveying our environment to check that there is no-one watching us. While her head is turned, I hear her mutter, in a regretful voice, "And it seems I am to only add to your troubles, my dear child."

"What?" I interject sharply. "How are you going to add to my troubles?"

"Oh. So you heard me." Mme Giry looks me straight in the eye, emotionless. I can already tell, from that glance along, that the piece of information she will deliver to me is one that we both will detest.

"It seems, Erik," Madame Giry starts, her words carefully chosen, "that someone has complained about the fact that you are allowed to live here for free, without doing any work in return, and that others have caught wind of this complaint, so a protest has been formed. Either let people move their starving families into the building or cast you out if you do not agree to work. I don't have to tell you which notion is more favourable to the managers."

"That bastard!" I exclaim vociferously. "Whoever he is I swear to God –"

"Erik!" interrupts Mme Giry angrily. Then, in a calmer tone: "I am not saying that it was right of that aforementioned person to have done that to you, but nonetheless I'm afraid that, my dear, I cannot help but agree with them."

"Madame Giry –"

"Erik, it has gone on too long now. You are no longer a child. You haven't been a child for almost four years. I will not allow you not do anything anymore and instead will force you to make something of yourself. Do not object to what I will say or I shall cast you out on the streets myself."

I remain silent. I am not happy with her harsh words but at the same time admittedly intrigued by what the woman has to say.

"Good, Erik. Now, one of the chorus members has left, therefore I have set you up an audition for the new place. It is tomorrow evening. I have secured the stage for you to practise now, so you must leave my company presently. The piano player is still there and will give you your sheet music. Your audition aria will be one from _Faust_, as that is the next opera they are putting on. I know you have heard the music and the words before so yes, you know it better than you might think. You will be successful in this audition, or I'm sorry to say this, but I will have no other choice than to cast you out on the streets. Is that clear?"

"Yes," I whimper.

"_Is that clear_?!"

"Yes!" I exclaim.

"Good, my boy. I shall leave you now. Good luck. I shall see you in the morning," she says, and then leaves me for good.

I can hear her footsteps in the corridor. They are loud at first, but soften as time goes on. Within thirty seconds, I can hear no more.

I have no choice but to go rehearse and audition. The process is quite sudden; I'm quite certain that, if I was actually given a choice in the matter instead of an ultimatum, I would have chosen not to participate. I shall do this only because I have to. My life would be tougher in the streets, and I'm sure my voice is terrible now; I have not sung since I was thirteen. Before. . .

No, I must not let myself think about it. I would slip back into oblivion if I did.

"No, I shall sing _for _them now," I tell myself, having not room for doubt or worry. I must just do this. It is my duty. Otherwise, it would be unfair to Mme Giry. I know that she thinks as me as a son, and could not lose me. And I could not lose her equally. We must remain together. . . We must. . .

I step out of bed and realize that I must have fallen asleep in my day clothes. I look down at myself. They are slightly crumpled, but still presentable.

I swiftly make my way out of the room and toward the stage.

There is no going back now.

This is the point of no return.

**I included references to three POTO song titles in here, so kudos to you if you saw them! Next chapter should hopefully be up in time – our characters will finally meet! Please review, favourite and follow! **


	4. Chapter Three: The Angel of Music

**Sorry this is really late! Life has got in the way! I have decided now there will be no fixed date of updates, just once a week instead. Also, I have included a song from Faust – it is sung in French; if anyone wants to know the translation they can find it on my profile. Please favourite, follow and review! Here is Chapter Three! **

**Chapter Three:**

**THE ANGEL OF MUSIC**

**Paris, March 13****th****, 1881**

Christine's POV

One of the greatest tragedies in life is that people underestimate how thin the walls are. And how someone can listen without you even knowing their presence.

Eavesdropping is a skill I learned many years ago. I first started putting it to use when I realized I had a natural talent for it. I was exploring the forest near the gypsy camp one day when a group of teenagers started hovering in the entrance, and I heard my name. It turns out that they were planning on attacking me that day when I visited the river as I did every night. They were quite far away from me, but I managed to hear every word they spoke. Therefore, on that fateful day, I did not go to the river's edge, and instead waited behind some bushes. They were angry and perplexed as to why I did not make an appearance, but soon grew bored and journeyed back to their homes. In truth, they'd frightened me so much that I did not visit the river for a year, just in case they came back. They didn't. But I didn't know that.

I started to see if I could eavesdrop on other conversations; I was successful. And I realized my talents: hiding and eavesdropping. Such flairs to appreciate!

And these "flairs" were put into action this very night! For I was in the catacombs of my home and I heard someone scream! I wondered who it was; for I had never heard that scream. It was divine; like a clash of notes on a piano, deafening yet somehow heavenly. It had immediately piqued my attention – I swiftly made my way to the place where I had heard the sound, and soon discovered that the voice had belonged to a man, when he started talking. But he had not begun the conversation; Mme. Giry had. She had called his name – "Erik", so beautiful – three times before he answered, his voice as melodious as his scream. He is an angel sent from heaven.

And I am a devil from hell.

I didn't really listen to Mme. Giry's side of the conversation; just what this mystical "Erik" said. He mentioned being "fine", to which Mme. Giry retorted that he was obviously not "_**fine**_". And he told her about his "dreams"; they must not be the dreams such a celestial creature such as him deserves. No, they are the dreams the repulsive monster that is me should have.

And I rightfully do.

He says he does not sleep; neither do I. Mme. Giry told him that no human could survive without sleep; so what does that make me? I had to strain my ears to hear the latter part of the conversation because for some reason their voices had both dropped a significant amount of decibels.

Mme. Giry then delivered the fatal blow: she was going to add to Erik's troubles. What troubles? Whatever they are, I wish I could comfort him without disgusting him. Yet that is not how life is. It is my role in life – to be revolting to everyone around me.

I had heard her go on about the person who'd revealed Erik's identity – the damnable bastard! I agree with Erik completely – who would be so cruel as to do that to someone? He's obviously been through colossal amounts of excruciating pain in his twenty-one years. . . why would someone willing add to that? I swear to God, if I_ ever_ find out who did this to Erik, I shall kill them with no remorse.

"_Now one of the chorus members has left, therefore I have set you up an audition for the new place. It is tomorrow evening. I have secured the stage for you to practice now, so you must leave my company presently. The piano player is still there and will give you your sheet music. Your audition aria will be one from Faust, as that is the next opera they are putting on. I know you have heard the music and the words before so yes, you know it better than you might think. You will be successful in this audition, or I'm sorry to say this, but I will have no other choice than to cast you out on the streets. Is that clear?"_

This was the most intriguing part of Mme. Giry's instructions. He was going to audition for a part in the chorus! He was going to have to sing. . . I will be able to hear him sing! If his singing is_ anything _like his stunning voice, the angels will weep. . .

I shall weep. . .

I rapidly journey over to the little alcove the side opposite to the now-broken mirrors are; it's the part of my lair where the stage is directly under. I can hear best under there.

For some moments, moments which seem like eternity, there is silence, despite the occasional shuffles of the resident piano player's sheet music. Once again, I find myself straining my ears to hear something – anything – that confirms Erik's presence.

After a while I give up and start to travel back to the main part of my underground home, frustrated and confused. Why hadn't he shown? He seemed adamant that he would. He seemed desperate. He didn't seem like someone who would willingly break their word. And he has a lot at stake – he has his life – to lose if he does not win this place in the choir. Of course, if tonight he proved to be even just okay at singing, I'd guarantee him a place in the ensemble. If the managers felt otherwise a menacing letter could be quickly and deftly written to ensure they changed their minds. . .

Then I hear it. The sound**: **his voice. Then his footsteps**,** light and quick.

"Um. . . Hello?" His words send electric jolts through my body.

I rush over to where I can hear better and position myself accordingly.

"Yes?" says the piano player in his deep, brusque tone. "I must presume you are Erik?"

"Yes, I am," the alluring person in question answers. "I am here –"

"Yes, to practice your audition for tomorrow: '_Le veau d'or est toujours debout_', Méphistophélès's aria from Act II of _Faust_. Do you know the words?"

"No."

He gives a small sigh and I can hear more shuffling of paper. There is a short silence between the two men while the piano player lifts up the lid of his beloved instrument and makes sure the music is correctly up on the stand. I hear the magnificent introduction; the anticipation and anxieties surrounding his voice is destroying me – I almost can't stand it anymore.

And then the bar previous to when Erik is meant to start singing plays. I take a deep breath**,** and Erik begins to sing.

_Le veau d'or est toujours debout!_

_On encense sa puissance,_

_On encense sa puissance,_

_D'un bout du monde à l'autre bout!_

_Pour fêter l'infàme idole,_

_Rois et peuples confondu,_

_Au bruit sombre des écus,_

_Danse une ronde folle_

_Autour de son piédestale,_

_Autour de son piédestale,_

_Et Satan conduit le bal!_

_Le veau d'or est vainqueur des dieux!_

_Dans sa gloire dérisoire,_

_Dans sa gloire dérisoire,_

_Le monstre abject insulte aux cieux!_

_Il contemple, ô rage étrange!_

_A ses pieds le genre humain,_

_Se ruant, le fer en main,_

_Dans le sang et dans la fange_

_Où brille l'ardent métal,_

_Où brille l'ardent métal,_

_Et Satan conduit le bal! d"_

I am stunned. I am speechless.

_Oh Erik. . ._

"Well done, that was quite good, Erik." The pianist says.

_What?!_

It was better than good. It was. . . Heavenly. Blissful. His voice was one of an angel, the highest angel. Ethereal. Haunting.

Perfect.

It is true that there were a few vocal mistakes, but with training – _my_ training – he shall be absolutely divine. Flawless.

A star.

"It was?" Erik asks, an element of hope in his otherwise despondent voice.

_Oh, Erik, you shall never know how utterly brilliant that was. . ._

"Yes. You shall make a wonderful addition to the ensemble as of tomorrow**.**" he compliments, yet his words and condescending tone make me burn with fury.

How dare he say that Erik is only destined for the lowly ensemble! Erik is meant for the leading role. The Maestro. The one that will draw in the crowds to the opera house, whose name shall dominate the advertising posters, the one whose voice will enchant thousands.

And I shall be the one to make that a reality. If he will let me.

I have no plan; unusually, no ideas for how to get what I desire come to mind. I shall just have to improvise and act as an angel.

An angel of music.

"I will?" Erik has an excited tone now.

Little does he know that his emotions reflect mine.

"Yes. Now, I advise you to memorize the words**,** as you'll be required to know them off by heart, therefore you may keep the sheet. Now, goodbye Erik**,** I shall see you tomorrow."

"Thank you**,** sir. Goodbye**,** sir." Erik sounded so pleased**,** I only hope to add to his ecstasy.

I hear the pianist leave. Erik is alone now, it is time to introduce myself.

"That foolish man!" I shout.

Erik quivers; I expected so.

"Who are you?" he inquires nervously.

"Who am I?" I make my tone sound like it is an insult. "_Who am I_? It seems you do not know your own Angel of Music, Erik."

"My Angel of Music?" Erik's surprise informs me that, to my utter disbelief, he has heard the phrase before.

"Yes! And I am still affronted that you do not know of me!"

"Oh, Angel," Erik pleads, "forgive me if I do not recognize your voice! It has been so long! I never thought I would hear my Angel. . . wait. How do I know you're my Angel?" He stops speaking abruptly.

My blood turns to ice. I did not imagine he would not fully believe me. But then again, he is not naïve or gullible; of course he would ask questions. I just have to come up with a convincing answer.

"You want convincing, do you? First of all, never doubt a word I say. Doubt only leads to mistrust. And you need someone to trust in your life, don't you, Erik? Someone who can make you feel safe, someone who can help you escape from your dreams. . ."

"You know about my dreams?" Erik questions, still remaining wary.

"Yes," I reply confidently. "I do not think it pertinent to divulge the intricate little details of them, but I will tell you I know they are about a lost loved one. Lost loved _ones_."

In truth, I made a complete guess about the nature of his dreams. Though common sense did come into action: why else would he be stuck inside this damning opera house?

"You know? About. . . Mother. . . Father. . ."

"Of course, Erik; it is my _duty _to know."

"Are they. . . happy in heaven?" His voice breaks; I think he is starting to cry.

"Yes, my dear, very happy," I say assuredly, a little guilt spreading inside me.

I do not want to tell him lies, but it is necessary. He shall thank me when he is the star of the Opera Populaire. What is one small lie in the grand scheme of things? It is minute; it does not matter.

"Have they s-sent you here t-to enquire about m-me?" Erik stammers – I guess it is out of shock.

"In a sense, Erik," I reply, readying myself for the request that is about to come. "You see, your parents were musical, and they have finally deemed you ready to receive tuition. Once in every great singers' lives, they are visited by their own Angel of Music, who seeks to improve their voices so they can truly astonish others by their unique gifts. You have been born with this magical potential, Erik, therefore you will obtain help from your Angel of Music. And that is I, Erik. You are ready. Ready to be celebrated. Ready to be a star."

"My parents wanted this now? They told me about the Angel of Music, but I assumed it would be a visit in a dream when I was a child, a juvenile fantasy. I am an adult now; I didn't realize these things could come true. I didn't realize my parents still wanted me to sing. . ."

He is only doing this for his parents. Well, I shall have to rectify that, shan't I?

"Yes, your parents wanted you to sing, but after the tragic ordeal – once again, I shall spare you the details – they saw you were in an unfit state to begin your training. Therefore, they have waited – until now."

My words were slightly shaky; I can't tell whether he believes me fully or is thinking that it is a massive coincidence that the day he was due to be thrown out of his home, a singing "angel" has come to help him. I don't know. I can't tell.

"Oh. . . okay. It seems they haven't forgotten me," Erik says, to my sheer relief.

"No; they will_ never_ forget you, Erik," I respond quickly.

"When do you want to give me lessons then? Where?" His voice is still a bit wary and awkward, but thankfully less than before.

I think rapidly. I have a meticulous plan in mind.

"Here, every night, same time. We shall see how that arrangement turns out. Are you happy with this, Erik?"

"Yes." His voice is doubtless.

"I shall come at that time then. I must leave now, Erik."

"Yes, I shall see you soon, Angel. Thank you." I hear him begin to walk away.

I am alone once again now, but currently I am filled with hope and promise, not darkness and despair. I will turn his already wonderful voice into something truly magical. And then. . . Maybe. . .

No, I refuse to think that far ahead in the future. It will only damage the whole process. I resign myself to this method.

Though I have now been inspired; I decide to continue composing for a little while. I move over to my organ, retrieve the composition I have been working on, and begin to play.

Please review!


	5. Chapter Four: The First Lesson

**Hi! So Sorry haven't updated this in a month, but life had been busy! Should updating once every two weeks now because I've started another story, Resist Me. It's another E/C story so if you have time please R & R it, and also this one. This was beta'd by the amazing ****Not A Ghost3****. On with Chapter Four!**

**Chapter Four:**

**THE FIRST LESSON**

**Paris, March 14th, 1881**

Erik's POV

"Erik Destler!"

My heart quickens; my breathing reacts to this change, and follows suit. I'm a shaking, hyperventilating, erratic mess. I've been like this since last night, when my Angel came to visit me.

My perfect, beautiful angel.

She has told me things I have never even dared to think myself, told me that I could be someone I did not think myself capable. She is convinced that there is some beauty in me, when there is none. Why does she believe that I could be the maestro of the Opera Populaire, that I could be the _star_, the one that everyone came to see? It's unbelievable, inconceivable, unimaginable. . .

But now is not the time to try to interpret such ludicrous notions. Now is the time to do the thing I most love in this unforgivable, twisted world: _sing_.

"Monsieur Destler – are you there?"

My mind almost goes into overdrive as I process it is now my time to audition. Whilst taking a few deep breaths, I stroll as confidently as I can manage to the middle of the stage, travelling through the narrow side passage that links backstage to the vast wooden platform, where in the past many magnificent singers have graced so elegantly. I feel so inferior to them, therefore shouldn't be standing here, yet somehow, fate has allowed to take the position I've only dreamed about.

Sitting on the seats in the middle of the first row, there is the new managers – Messieurs Firmin and André – who are sitting fastidiously upright, both mirrors of each other, right down to the colour of their ties. It is quite conspicuous that they are trying to look professional and powerful; however, this backfires terribly, as they actually look quite pompous and laughable. It is quite hilarious really. I have to concentrate quite hard on not laughing.

"Erik Destler, is that you?" The one on the left, M. Firmin I think, asks me, completely unaware about the fact that ends of his moustache are sticking up most terribly. Deciding to mention it as that would make me seem insolent, I choose to confirm his question with a brief nod.

"How old are you, boy?" The other manager – who must be M. André – inquiries in a haughty tone, which I do not like at all, however I do the exactly the same thing as before: choosing to ignore the thing that irks me in order to secure the best possible chance of joining the ensemble. It's my only choice – either this, or the streets. And I have no intention of having to beg for my dinners.

"I'm twenty-one, Messieurs. I believe my birthday to be the twelfth day of July."

I hear the managers snort after I finish informing them on the details of my birth. I don't expect them to be impressed with either piece of information. I can tell, from the way they looked at me as I first walked on the stage, that they both would rather an older person be their new choir member. As to why, I can't say I know. However, I intend to amaze them.

"Yes, Erik. Thank you. What song have you chosen to audition with?"

"'_Le veau d'or est toujours debout_', from _Faust_."

"You intend to sing that? Especially when – I assume – you're quite aware that this piece is vocally challenging?"

I smile – it seems that the managers will be impressed by at least _one_ thing.

"I know." My answer is simple and straight to the point.

If I'm honest, every question and every answer just adds to the tension bubbling inside of me. If I do not sing soon, as God is my witness, I swear I'll erupt in blazing flames of anxiety.

Fortuitously, the next time Monsieur André opens his mouth, it is to do with my performance:

"Very well then, Erik Destler, you may begin. Oh – but one last question: will you be requiring the services of our resident pianist? Or will you be singing a cappella?"

"_Oh_." My eyes go wide with horror and my jaw drops unsophisticatedly open.

I did not realize that was an option. Was I meant to?

"Um, I must apologize, Messieurs: I have no music for the pianist, so I am not in need of the pianist's services."

"A cappella it is, then," M. André sighs.

For a few seconds I worry whether singing without accompaniment has compromised my chances, but what can I do about it now? Nothing. So I must deliver, and hope it is enough.

I center myself so that every inch of my body is facing the managers, and fill my lungs with the stuffy air around me, before exhaling ever so slowly. I turn my head upwards, up to the heavens. _This is for you Angel_, I think while a slow smile appears on my lips. _This is for you, only you, and no-one but you. I hope I do you proud_.

I bring my head down and look the managers straight in the eye, as if to unnerve them. Unlike most, eye contact makes me feel better. I breathe another breath quickly, before I begin.

And then I open my mouth, fighting for the chance to stay here, to have a place in the ensemble, and prove my worth to my Angel of Music:

"_Le _veau d'or_ est _toujours_ debout!_

_On encense sa puissance,_

_On encense sa puissance,_

_D'un bout du monde à l'autre bout!_

_Pour fêter l'infàme idole,_

_Rois et peuples confondu,_

_Au bruit sombre des écus,_

_Danse une ronde folle_

_Autour de son piédestale,_

_Autour de son piédestale,_

_Et Satan conduit le bal!_

_Le veau d'or est vainqueur des dieux!_

_Dans sa gloire dérisoire,_

_Dans sa gloire dérisoire,_

_Le monstre abject insulte aux cieux!_

_Il contemple, ô rage étrange!_

_A ses pieds le genre humain,_

_Se ruant, le fer en main,_

_Dans le sang et dans la fange_

_Où brille l'ardent métal,_

_Où brille l'ardent métal,_

_Et Satan conduit le __bal__!_"

_Clapping. . . I hear clapping. . .__!_

I open my eyes wide sharply, blinking a few times to refocus my vision. It is only then I realize that I had my eyes closed for the entire song. I gaze around frantically at my soundings, having completely forgotten where I am. When I was singing I was in another place entirely: one where my voice soared and had made its own alluring music, the place in the heavens where I was free, where I was side by side with my Angel. . .

I'm on stage. That fact alone frightens me. _Why am I here?_

To try to answer that question, I look around, ascertaining that I'm in the Opera Populaire. _Why on the stage though?_

_And there's that deafening clapping sound. . ._

My eyes land on two men, who are simultaneously banging their hands together in an excited motion. Who are they?

Then I look into their eyes.

And recognize them.

"Well done Monsieur Erik! That was truly marvellous!"

"Yes! Wonderful!"

The managers. . . clapping. . . smiling. . . complimenting. . .

That can only mean one thing:

I've done well. . .

I've done well!

_Oh, my Angel. . ._

"Thank you!" I gasp, almost croaking, suddenly finding myself not able to breathe.

I'm too full with confusion, shock, and ecstasy. No-one has complimented me with such vigour before! Well, not since. . .

"No, _thank you_!" Firmin's rich voice rings out in the large, unoccupied theatre.

"It was splendid!" André agrees.

I beam at the both of them, having finally recovered my composure. I truly am at a loss for words. My Angel was right! I was good! I _am_ good! Finally, I have found the thing I am meant to excel in.

I look upwards once again and silently thank my Angel of Music. Without her, my success would have never been possible. And Madame Giry. She's the one who put me up for this in the first place. She wouldn't have done if she thought I had no talent. Which means she must have some faith in me. . . I wonder how she found out. . .

My thoughts are interrupted by the managers' voices:

"Well, Erik," M. Firmin begins, his applause having fully died out – so had M. Andre's – "I must admit I was not expecting such brilliance from a man of one-and-twenty years! You could rival Signor Piangi, our current maestro, with your tremendous ability!"

"Yes," says Monsieur André. "It seems you have quite a. . . rapport with singing. You of course have the part in the ensemble, and I am sure that, with time and training, you could develop a voice which would be second to none. Tell me, do you have a teacher of the finer arts?"

"I have a –" I rush out impetuously, but luckily stop myself before revealing my teacher; it would be unwise to mention the angelic nature of her. It would make me seem rather insane, which is an untruthful diagnosis which I'd rather not bestow upon myself. "I_ had _a teacher; she taught me everything I now know."

"May I ask her name?"

"Viola Canterbury," I lie, saying the first name that comes into my head.

I did not expect him to ask me that question after I carefully worded my previous answer to make sure no further questions would be asked. However, it seems the exact opposite occurred.

"Oh. . . It seems I have not heard of her. Then again, I have not been in this business for much time. Anyhow, we will ensure that we can get you an instructor, won't we, Monsieur Firmin?"

"Yes, very much so. We may even see if you can get some of the lesser parts in the opera, which I suppose is a very big step up from the ensemble."

"Thank you, so much," I gush.

"It is your own talent that has got you here, Erik. We are thankful that you auditioned and have secured the part. You will need to reside here at the Opera Populaire –"

"I already do."

"Oh yes, you're that boy Madame Giry took in eight years ago," remembers Firmin.

My blood freezes at his words.

In all the setbacks I could possibly have had, I did not think my living arrangements would be one of them.

"Yes," I confirm hastily, trying to keep a positive in my voice. "I do, and please accept my most sincere apologies on the subject. Madame Giry took me in as a little boy because of personal matters which left me an orphan – and she has allowed me to live here ever since. I am not aware of the person who informed you of me but this is my way of redeeming myself for living with her for free for so long."

"Oh no, don't apologize boy, please," says M. Firmin. "I am actually quite glad on two accounts: One, because it means we do not have to make room for you in the dormitories, which is fortunate as there is no room left at all, and two, it brought you here to us. I am actually quite pleased with this outcome."

I let out an internal sigh of relief: I am so thankful that it is not a problem. For a moment, I thought it could cost me my place, my everything. But for M. Firmin, not just to say he refuses my apologies, but to also say he is quite glad of the entire situation, it is truly a stroke of luck.

"We want you here, nine a.m. sharp every day, excluding Sundays, for rehearsal. Is that clear?" instructs M. André.

"Yes, perfectly."

"Good, good. We shall see you tomorrow."

Taking this as my cue to leave, I do just that.

"Goodbye, Monsieur Firmin, Monsieur André."

I start to walk towards the entrance of the backstage area when M. André calls me:

"Erik – one last thing!"

"Yes, sir?" I turn around to face him.

"Well done!"

It is nine p.m. precisely, and I am waiting on the stage for my Angel. Nervousness and anticipation are building up inside of me. I cannot wait to hear her again, but am scared of upsetting her.

I am also quite confused. In my daze last night I didn't realize she didn't mention a time for our rendezvous: all she said was '_Here, every night, same time__'_. Does that mean she will come when she knows I am here? I must admit, I spent some time deliberating at what hour to arrive; the ultimate factor which decided my fate was the knowledge that M. Firmin and M. André leave at the half-hour before the ninth hour of the evening, therefore the earliest time me and my Angel could meet again would be now.

My breathing quickens as I stand alone in the darkness. There is an unwarm, unsteady atmosphere circulating around me which makes me feel a little sick. When is she going to be here? I mean no insolence with the question, but the hope to hear her again is nearly killing me.

More moments pass. More moments alone.

Then suddenly- the theatre illuminates. One by one, the spherical lights surrounding the stage burst into bright flames, amazing me and terrifying me at the same time. Yet there is no time for questions about the event. I can only watch.

Every light continues in this pattern in a clockwise motion, making the audience's seats and boxes not only visible but effervescent, as if with an added supernatural element. Then, the lights on the ceiling, which reveal the ornate swirl decoration carved into it.

It seems she leaves the best till last. The chandelier is the only thing still in darkness. But not for long. With a massive bang, it transforms from this unimpressive object to a true spectacle, which is beautiful and brilliant, gleaming in all its glory. It is a true work of art.

Every light is on now, I can see clearly again. Viscerally, I know it is the work of my Angel; who else could have the power to perform such a colossal feat and pull it off so magnificently!

The only thing left is for her to make an appearance.

And I intend it to be soon.

"Angel of Music!" I shout as loud as I can, a desperate tone in my voice. I look gleefully around, trying to spot my heavenly songbird. "Angel, where are you?"

"I am here, my dear Erik!"

Her beautiful voice, like the peaceful waves of the sea, rings out calmly in the silence. It sounds slightly urgent, yet mainly tranquil. I decide to not object.

"Oh, Angel! How I've missed you this past day! I must tell you something very exciting: I have acquired the place on the ensemble!"

"I know, Erik! Your Angel always knows everything! And how I must congratulate you! You know so much, yet there is still a lot to learn!

"And I am determined to learn it all!" I say forcefully, whilst smiling. Her presence is enough alone to make me happy.

"I know you will, Erik; and I will enjoy every minute of it. . ." she trails off.

For a minute, neither of us speak. I begin to wonder if it's my fault. But I haven't done anything to upset her. . . I open my mouth to protest, but fortuitously, to my complete joy, I don't need to. For she begins speaking again with:

"Now, Erik, on to the main matter of tonight: please reprise the song you sang last night and at the audition. This time, I shall listen to it more closely. Then, we shall work on your techniques; but only some, as I'm afraid I shall have to leave the rest for days to come. You have to have your best voice and person tomorrow at rehearsals, therefore I feel it is my duty to remind you of such things and call time on the lesson when I feel it is the most appropriate."

"Yes," I agree with a shaky voice. Her words are a lot to process, but I will try to make sense of them. The next thing I say is:

"Would you like for me to sing it again now?"

"Please. Begin when you feel ready. Once again, you will be singing a cappella."

I am a little disheartened at this news; I'd rather sing with music, but maybe my Angel needs to focus on my voice alone, and music would prove a distraction to her. I take another deep breath, open my mouth, and let the words fall out as best as I can.

After I finish, I once again hear clapping. I open my eyes, realizing I shut them to sing like before. It must just be something I naturally do. However, the difference between this time and last is that I can fully enjoy every moment of my Angel's applause as I'm aware of exactly where I am, and exactly what I'm doing.

"Well done Erik; it was marvellous. On the contrary, though, I feel as if you are trying to hide something, because when you sing, you sing with no confidence. You sound as if you are scared of yourself. And you're not, Erik. I do not want you to be."

"I'm not," I confirm eagerly, quite surprised at the news. I don't have much confidence in singing; maybe that is the reason behind why I shut my eyes. "I won't be."

"Good – that's what I want to hear." There is a smile in my Angel's voice. "Now sing it again. I want confidence."

I sing it again, and again, and again, each time getting better, but still not at the level she wants me to be at. This is causing me dismay; however I shan't let it show, because that will only make my performance worse.

I finish singing it for the fifth time.

"Once more, Erik. This time, put everything you have into it."

I take the biggest breath I've ever known, and oblige her with my voice.

Every single part of me aches when I finish, having channelled every ounce of strength I have into the song. But it is rewarding, as this time, I hear my Angel clapping louder than ever.

"That was perfect, Erik; simply perfect! Your ability really shone that time."

_Perfect! _She called it perfect!

I smile widely.

"Thank you, Angel," I say happily, though quite tired. Because of this, I yawn.

"You are tired, Erik: I can see that. Therefore, I must leave you now."

"No, Angel, not yet!" I protest, but it is no use.

"I shall see you tomorrow, Erik," my Angel of Music says. And with that, she vanishes.

I call out to her a few times, to ensure she is gone, before letting out a small tear. I feel happy and safe in her presence, and in just a few seconds, it is robbed from me.

Still, I must look at the positives: I have a place in the choir, and she still wants to teach me.

The lights go out; I am left in darkness. But this time, I'm full of hope. Tomorrow is another day, and it is the start of my new life.

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